


Au Naturale

by IamShadow21



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Het and Slash, M/M, Rough Sex, Sexual Experimentation, is this even a kink?, natural ladies and men, take a number, the doctor will see to you now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-07
Updated: 2011-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-25 19:30:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A body has secret valleys, pockets and nooks that retain a heady scent, a musk as individual as a fingerprint. John seeks it, craves it, learns it in his partners. Wants to, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Au Naturale

The first girl who lets him take her top off is giggly, bashful and eager all at once. It's a brand new world of smooth, untanned skin, curves and crevices, hollows and mounds. Her bra cups the small handfuls of mammary tissue that he gently fondles. He ducks his head close, presses his lips to the bits he can see. Nuzzles a little, listens to her gasp. Noses down further to the side, down where the elastic cuts into her skin over the rises of her ribs. Up a little, and she suddenly jerks away a little. He stops, pulls back.

“I'm ticklish,” she says, but he can tell she's lying. There's a flush of embarrassment on her cheeks, and he decides not to ask why. She's certainly not shy minutes later, when she rubs him off through his jeans.

**

Harry goes to uni, and suddenly is loud, brash, and angrily out for the world to see. She turns her sexuality into the weapon to batter everyone around with, and defiantly smokes, drinks and flaunts her conquests in front of her friends, her enemies, and her family (who from moment to moment fall into either or both categories). John is sixteen, and he meets girls and women like he's never met before through Harry, even if it's only an awkward hello over the breakfast table. He is scrupulously polite to everyone he happens to be confronted with on a given morning, which makes Harry _furious_.

“They're _lesbians_ ,” she seethes. “They're not interested in a nerdy little twat like _you_.”

In fact, John has a tiny pile of phone numbers, left for him by girls who saw Harry in the harsh light of morning and decided her little brother with the sweet manners and mild temper was worth a date, if not more. He hasn't called many of them – home life is tumultuous enough as it is – but the one or two he does call teach him a lot. They tell him what they like, help him learn what _he_ likes. His tutors have comfortable shoes, open minds, clever hands and kind hearts. John takes what they give him through medical training and beyond, even into the wilds of Afghanistan.

**

A body has secret valleys, pockets and nooks that retain a heady scent, a musk as individual as a fingerprint. John seeks it, craves it, learns it in his partners. Wants to, anyway.

His first 'long term' girlfriend in uni doesn't understand this. It's not that he's tried to explain it – he wouldn't know how to start – but understanding each other's likes and dislikes is a natural process, isn't it? Pop culture seems to tell him so.

She gets her body hair waxed as a 'present' for his birthday; he tries to hide his disappointment, probably fails.

He wanders 'too far back' with tongue and fingers one night and she is angry with him for two days afterwards, despite enthusiastic encouragement in the heat of the moment.

She refuses to let him touch her while she's bleeding, expresses angry revulsion that he's even suggested it. She's going to be a doctor too, and yet his neutral argument that 'it's natural, it's fine' is enough for her to call him 'some kind of pervert'.

He waits for her to relax around him, for her to wear comfortable clothes, less make up, less jewellery. It doesn't happen.

They don't last.

**

He's sweaty, sandy, hot and horny. So's she. Their body armour's in a messy pile at the end of his bunk, and they're off duty for another blessed hour. Make it count, that's the plan. He's sucking her nipples with enthusiasm while she gently rakes his back with her nails and scratches at his buzz cut hair.

There's a couple of crashes from outside; a flurry of laugher and the sounds of running. An impromptu rugby match, perhaps. A game of 'keep away' probably. Soldiers tend to fight and fuck in equal measure; it keeps the tedium at bay between the terror and adrenaline of action.

His wandering fingers flutter across an unfamiliar patch of coarse hair, and he tilts his head to look before thinking.

“Lady shavers are hard to come by in Her Royal Highness's service,” Murray murmurs. “Problem?” She doesn't even pause rubbing the back of his calf with her heel.

John flushes warmly, swallows hard. “No,” he says thickly, “no, no, not at all.”

Her eyes narrow and her lips give a little quirk. “Go on, then. Bet you've never handled a free range female before.”

He swallows again. “Not for a while,” he admits.

(He's seventeen, she's twenty one. He came quickly when she sucked him, tongue piercing tickling the underside. Now, there's a cock ring cinched tight around the base of his penis, and she's fucking herself on him, crying out loudly on every stroke. She's taller than him, and leaning forward, so her breasts brush his cheeks, his chin, with every bounce, and with every bounce a glimpse of darkened armpits, a scent of musk.)

“Too long,” he hears himself say.

“I'm up for anything,” Murray says calmly. “But if you don't get your cock in me soon I won't be held accountable for my actions.” Her heels dig in his calves as she rocks up, rubbing herself unsatisfyingly against his belly.

“Okay,” he murmurs to himself. “Okay.”

He dips his head down, slowly, then just lets himself breathe. It's salty and strong, sharp and warm, almost like cunt but with a different edge to it. He tastes, and it sweeps over his palette. He feels his cock throb, hears himself make a strange, wanting noise. Murray's hand rubs across his shoulder, the back of his head, soothing, but he can hear her rough breaths, her heartbeat.

He moves down, down, down and licks her out until she's gasping and cursing. He's focussed completely, above it all somehow, and it isn't until she fumbles the condom on and begs him that he realises how gone he is, how close.

He's not gentle. Murray is one of the least breakable people he knows; maybe that's why he knows he can fuck her like this, like the world is ending. He shoves her legs up and out, and she braces one of her hands above her to stop her head hitting the bed. The other is down between her legs, rubbing furiously at her clit. He feels her clamp down on him like a steel glove and that's it, that's it, he's there.

He blushes afterwards; at his lack of control, at the catcalls from the eavesdroppers, at the guilty pleasure of the whole encounter.

“So, you've got a kink, big deal,” Murray says nonchalantly. “Works for you, and I'm sure as hell not complaining.”

Their no-strings arrangement ends abruptly, when his tour does, but it's the most comfortable relationship he's ever had.

With a military pension, a reconstructed shoulder and a limp, he doesn't count on his chances of finding its like again.

**

Sarah is a breath of fresh air. She's relaxed about her appearance without being dowdy. The light scent he associates with her seems to be from soap, rather than from a heavy perfume. Her hair is naturally coloured, simply cut. Her nails are neatly trimmed without being manicured, and she wears sensible shoes (a doctor needs to). He doesn't know anything about the way she feels besides her warm handshake. He doesn't know if she's trimmed or shaved, if she trembles or arches up, if she yells or goes quiet and gasping when she comes. He doesn't know, but he's been thinking about it. Rather a lot.

Sherlock heaves a great, impatient sigh when he sees him. He's freshly showered, freshly shaven, freshly _relieved_ , and he knows that's all completely transparent to his flatmate.

“Problem?” John asks blandly.

“Dull, pedestrian, _boring!_ ” Sherlock shouts, and smashes another test tube.

He sends John out for replacements at midday.

**

They're in a tangle, a panting, fumbling, _confusing_ tangle, and John doesn't even understand how they got here, how they're not dead or dying, how they're in this awkward, foreign space where peeling off the layers of their clothing bit by bit, checking every inch of each other, is the only sensible thing to do and yet completely and utterly _wrong_ at the same time.

The stark fluorescent light of the bathroom makes Sherlock look like one of those nocturnal creatures that never sees the sun; his skin bone pale except where it's bruised, abraded or cut. John knows he's similarly battered. There's gravel rash down one side of his ribs that stings and itches as it dries, and a nasty welted ring rubbed raw around his wrists where the cable ties cut into him.

He meticulously cleans and swabs everything, covering those injuries that need it, butterflying those that gape. Sherlock lets him, _lets him_ , meekly standing still, moving limbs when John needs him to, otherwise just staring into the middle distance. John starts to think he might be concussed, until he looks _down_.

“It's physiological,” Sherlock murmurs. “I'm not used... It's been... It'll go away,” he finishes.

“Right, yes,” John stupidly replies.

Though now that he's close, he can't help but notice and line up all those little things he thought he'd never noticed, alongside all the new things unveiled. He'd _seen_ but not _observed_ , sensed but not catalogued. Sherlock uses expensive products, but with no or low scent. Understandable, given the nature of his work. He has little body hair; what he has is trimmed and neat but not shaved or waxed in any way. He is generally immaculately but comfortably dressed; even lounging on the sofa required satin dressing gown and designer pyjama bottoms.

But now, _right now_ , he is so different. He smells of sweat, chlorine, gunpowder, antiseptic cream and blood. His clothing is in a messy, dirty pile, and his hair is a nest of curls, both above and below. His underarm hair isn't curled, just coarse, and John feels his head dip a little forward as the sudden urge seizes him to lean in, right in and taste it.

“I'd let you, if you ever asked,” Sherlock says, and John jolts back to reality.

“You never have, though. Not since the first case,” Sherlock continues a few moments later. “I didn't know you then, but I've been making my body language receptive for some time, now.”

John kisses him, quick and almost chaste. It seems the thing to do. His hands find Sherlock's waist.

“Why did you never ask?”Sherlock asks, curious.

“I didn't think you were my type,” John answers. His hands slide up, fingers curling around Sherlock's ribs, thumbs resting, very lightly, at the edge of the hidden wiry hair. “I guess I was wrong.”


End file.
